Uppenbarelse
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: At sixteen years old Peter can feel it. He's not stupid. / Warning for this probably being the most depressing thing I'll ever write. Longer warning and AN on the inside.


Warning: Let's slap a warning on this because I don't want to upset anyone who isn't expecting it: This is going to be probably the most depressing thing I'll ever post here. I can't imagine doing much worst with a Hetalia fic. But if I say more I'll give it away. This might need a second read when you're done and know the end.

Names used: **Sweden** (_Berwald_), **Norway** (_Lukas_), **Denmark **(_Christen_), **Iceland** (_Emil_), **Finland** (_Timo_), **Sealand** (_Peter_), **England** (_Arthur_), **France** (_Francis_)

Author's note: Continuing on from the above warning, I started reading « Gutters » which a couple people had mentioned in passing, and while I haven't finished it yet (no spoilers!) I got this idea and had to write it just so that I could move on from this thought before I got too far into that story. This is why I can't read stories like that when I should be packing up to move country yo. This is also why I have some SuNor tucked away to work on when I want to feel better.

Also if you know Swedish the title might be a giveaway (or if you've read the above-mentioned fic). If you don't know Swedish then wait to translate the title till the end; perhaps when you see the English translation you'll get the connection.

And then to feel better try reading « Scandinavia and the World » comics, that's what I did. All of SatW.

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><p><strong>Uppenbarelse<strong>

Papa never says what's happening; he doesn't have to.

At sixteen years old Peter can feel it. He's not stupid.

When the TV disappears, the computer following, he knows why.

There's a radio in his father's shed. Though he's never banned from going out there, Peter never does. He doesn't want to hear the reports.

The newspapers don't come anymore, though he's not quite sure if that's Papa's doing or their impending doom's.

The first real event that touches the micronation is a letter his father hands him. The only word on the envelope Arthur had actually written was his name in a shaky, weak hand. The rest of it looks like Francis wrote it. Peter never opens the letter.

Hanatamago had gone back to Helsinki with Mama. He wishes he'd given her one last treat, pet her fur one last time.

When Papa comes home, pulling Peter to his chest on the couch and crying in a really, truly, body-shaking fit of emotions, he knows who was the next to die. Peter holds his father's head in his arms like Mama used to, like the Finn will never do again. He's pretty sure they stay like that for days, though Peter never complains.

Lukas, he knows, is when Papa comes home and locks himself in his room. That's when the bags under those sea-green eyes become permanent.

The quiet sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the back door, is probably for Emil. Peter'd always liked Emil.

And when Papa does go and sit out on the back porch, Peter knows it's in tribute to Christen. He knows his father regrets the things left unsaid between them.

The food supply is running low by this point. The Sealander starts to count the days once he notices.

Now Papa doesn't leave. Peter's pretty sure there isn't anything outside left to go see anyway.

They sleep in the big room with the fireplace. They live in that room too.

One day Peter awakes to the sound of his father coming in, a bag in his hand that he stashes away upstairs, slowly, before coming back and crawling under the sheets behind his son.

Peter can feel what's coming next. He knows just where they are in the timeline, though he doesn't yet know the hour it will happen.

They read like there's no tomorrow. Perhaps there isn't.

It's when Papa quietly whispers his name that the hour becomes apparent. At the small table his father, for once, also looks small.

Defeated.

Already gone.

His once idol, his still hero.

Peter swallows hard before sitting, holding his father's hands. The Swede speaks in slow English; ever since he was little words in that language have meant his father is intent on him understanding every word. The weight they carry makes them almost too much.

"There's two ways this can happen Peter. We can wait…."

His father sighs deeply, his eyes closing. A single tear runs down that cheek and this is it.

This is it.

"I want to die in your arms Papa," Peter confesses. His father nods his head once, squeezing his hands.

"Thank you Peter."

"When?"

"When do you want to?"

There's no point putting off the inevitable. He gives his father's hands a squeeze this time. Papa nods once more.

The once-small Sealand is sitting before the fire his father has roaring now, no reason left to conserve the firewood. Papa comes back with the bag and Peter thinks he knew this would be it all along.

They're wearing their favorite clothing: Peter, his sweatshirt with the Swedish flag, pants he bought for his upcoming 17th birthday; Papa, a sweater Mama had given him so long ago, worn but still beautiful, and an old pair of jeans.

"I know, that you're big now," Papa starts, putting the bag down as he settles in before the fire. He sits with his legs crossed, facing the flames. "But can I hold you, one last time?"

On all fours he crawls into his father's lap, the way he has since he was small. He might have still been six, not sixteen, as strong arms wrap around him, holding him tightly.

They haven't had this much strength to hold each other since Mama died.

"We'll be together again," Papa whispers in his ear before pulling back a little, one hand cradling Peter's head, the other opening the paper bag and riffling through the content to get at something. "In heaven, with Mama and Hana and the others."

"When?" Peter asks.

His father's lip twitch as if to smile, but it's been too long.

"A few minutes. I bought the best for my boy."

Fingers bring the white pill to his lips. With one last look into those sea-green eyes, so lost and yet still so loving, Peter takes a deep breath.

"I love you Papa," he whispers, taking the pill in and swallowing without difficulty. Lips quickly kiss his nose.

The words are gasps. "I love you so much Peter." He barely registers his father taking three pills. Till the end, his father is big and strong.

He tucks his head in under his father's chin, allows himself to be held the way he's always loved. Lips continue to kiss his head, a voice whispering, over and over, "I love you Peter. I love you. I love you."

It wasn't such a bad life, Peter thinks. It was actually pretty good.

To end it, like this, with the apocalypse consuming the world, isn't quite so bad either.

Peter's still got Papa, and Papa's still got Peter.

Soon they'll have Mama back too.

"I love you."

And then that's that.


End file.
